


Trans-Atlantic

by LokisGirl



Category: Metallica
Genre: Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29155050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokisGirl/pseuds/LokisGirl
Summary: Jason's having trouble sleeping on a long flight. There's one thing that will help.(This doesn't even qualify as a character study. Just PWP. Could vaguely be considered unrequited James/Jason if you wanted to be cute about it.)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10





	Trans-Atlantic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katishas_right_elbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katishas_right_elbow/gifts).



On yet another trans-Atlantic flight, Jason found himself wide awake in the middle of the night. The faint noise of the jet’s engines always kept him up or woke him up if he didn’t take sleeping pills. This time, he couldn’t take them because they were playing Oslo tomorrow (today?) and the jet lag would kill him. This way, he’d be tired instead of totally out of it. Unless he could find a way to put himself to sleep naturally. 

He’d only ever found one sure fire way to knock himself out. A proper orgasm did it every time. Unfortunately, locking himself in the plane’s tiny bathroom for the length of time it would take to rub one out in the cramped space would be a dead giveaway should anyone happen to wake up. And that stupid bathroom was incredibly uncomfortable for anything beyond its intended purpose. 

Damn it. Thinking about wanking woke the creature. His mind unhelpfully provided a stream of images. Looking into the crowd at their last gig and seeing girls flashing him, the Polaroids sent to the band from the stars of a certain porn production house, the smile his ex only wore when something very naughty was about to happen. He wiggled in his seat, leaning it back a little further, trying to find a way to relieve the pressure of his pants. Jason gave up and quietly unzipped them under his blanket. The lack of friction was a tiny relief. He tried to think unsexy thoughts. Three weeks on the bus with unreliable showers and no laundry, three weeks of Kirk’s dairy-induced vegetarian farts, three weeks of Lars’ blasting orders at everyone. Three weeks of James on stage under the hot lights, blond hair plastered to his chiseled back as sweat poured down his face. Three weeks of showering and sleeping in the same room with James. Three weeks of not realizing the ratty black t-shirt he groped into on a hungover hotel morning belonged to James until the smell of it made him so hard he was afraid his dick would glow cherry red through his jeans. Three weeks of James.

Under the thin airline blanket, Jason slipped a secret hand inside his boxers. He pressed his cock against his belly with the flat of his hand, hoping it might just deflate and he could go back to half-sleeping. Almost as if it had a will of it’s own, his palm began making light strokes over his cockhead. Jason bit his lip. His eyes flicked open in the cabin’s dim light. Passed out cold on the seat across from him was the blond that haunted his fantasies. Moonlight streaming in the window caressed James’ cheekbone, silvering the hair of his mustache. He sighed in his sleep, licking his lip. Jason fixated on that slight flash of tongue. Just the flicking tip of it right on the spot his index finger was currently stroking, that extra sensitive spot where his glans met his shaft, that would be enough. 

It was enough to make him consciously fist his cock. To hell with getting caught. He could feel the precum welling up inside, close enough to the tip that a rolling squeeze from the root brought pearls of lubrication slipping over his head. Jason ran his palm through the moisture, picking it up to soak his cock and glide his way. The first few strokes are tentative, he gauges how much noise the clothing, the seat, and the movement together make. Not a lot; the backside of his hand catches his open zipper. He lifts his butt off the seat and shuffles jeans and boxers down around his slightly sticky thighs. It’s hot under the blanket. His hands are sweating. Looking at James’ sleeping form, he feels another rush of blood going straight to his groin, stiffening him. His head starts to buzz behind his eyes. His eyelids flutter. He fights the inclination to close them. He wants to see James laying there while he pleasures himself, wants to imagine the prickly hairs of James’ mustache tickling his cock as James sucks him off, wants to see those long fingers as he imagines them on his skin.

Jason’s seen James fuck, seen that his sex is an animalistic thing, wild with abandon and pulsing with life. He grips himself harder, almost painfully. This is how James would do it. Twisting his wrist to corkscrew his hand up the pulsing length he pumps more hot liquid out of himself to drip onto his belly. Breathing deeply, he forces himself to slow down. Now that he’s here he wants to ride the wave, the quivering edge before the abyss. Jason figured out long ago that this is the real moment. This is the place where bliss resides. An orgasm is called the little death, just like death it is both indescribable and impossible to remember as the brain short circuits. These minutes before, they’re the stuff of fantasies and dreams, the crossing where mind and body are finally one.   
James shifts. Jason freezes, holding his breath. James snuffles and settles back again, still sleeping deeply. Jason rubs a shaky hand over his forehead, pushing sweaty red locks out of his eyes. He focuses on James, on the long line of his neck, on the hollow of his throat. He thinks about wrapping James’ silky cornhusk hair around his dripping dick, about the sensation of stroking himself with it. He pictures coming into that hair, making it sticky and shiny with pearlescent drops. He pictures those same droplets meshed in James’ mustache, dripping from his goatee. James’ open mouth, his waiting, begging lips. 

Gritting his teeth to seal in a groan, Jason sprints for the finish, wrist pistoning, the meat of his hand pounding his thigh with every stroke. He feels his impending orgasm as two separate sensations, the white of the cum rushing up inside his cock, the black of nothing rushing up behind his mind. The two merge and for an instant there’s nothing but pleasure. A taste of copper and he realizes he’s bitten his lip again. A small price to pay. 

He rearranges his clothes with his clean hand, pushes the blanket back. Sneaking through the dark he makes it to the tiny bathroom to wash up. Falling back into his seat, sleep overtakes him.

**Author's Note:**

> Post elsewhere 2014-ish.


End file.
